


as good as the seeds he's sown

by spock



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Anxiety, Bad Sex, Drinking to Cope, First Time, Lovers to Friends, M/M, Misunderstandings, Past Relationship(s), Relationship Negotiation, Rough Sex, Trope Subversion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-04
Updated: 2014-10-04
Packaged: 2018-02-19 21:26:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2403425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spock/pseuds/spock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dicky's somehow long conned James into abandoning his crutch without him even knowing it, and now James' fucked.</p>
            </blockquote>





	as good as the seeds he's sown

**Author's Note:**

> for an any/any, 'first time all-the-way sexual experience that doesn't hurt' [prompt](http://thesinbin.dreamwidth.org/1008.html?thread=487920) at the kink meme.
> 
> quite possibly undernegotiated kink in the form of very, very, very tame, vaguely-described rough sex.

James gets nervous, is the thing. Never over things that make sense, except for how they do, once they're traced back, 'cause all the shit that makes his palms sweat sprung their roots during his time in junior as a kid. 

He's incapable of making noise when he jacks off, paper-thin walls and roommates who woke at the slightest noise quickly succeeded in training all the sound out of him. 

He's _tried_ , alone in his big empty house, where there's no way in hell anybody could possibly hear him, the palm of his hand moving in lazy circles around the head of his dick, legs bent wide and kept out of the way thanks to that supta baddha konasana pose Rick taught him during one of their PT sessions — something that proved to be the best _Incorporating What You Learned At Work Into Your Home-life_ transition he's ever managed — because it's the easiest way for him to slip a couple fingers into his ass without fatiguing his wrist. 

James' mouth'll drop open, right on the edge of a moan, and the sound will make it to the tip of his of his tongue before panic swells up in his chest and he has to snap his mouth shut or risk losing his erection altogether.

Sex is easier, but not by much. Thinking about it stresses him the fuck out, and then he gets angry at himself for being so worked up over it. Sex shouldn't be that big of a thing, especially one night stands with people he has no intention of ever seeing again, no matter how good the sex might be. In his mind he knows that even if he is a bad lay, the worst that'll happen to him is that whoever he disappoints will run their mouths to their friends and on twitter, but nobody believes that shit, and even if they did, it's not enough to fuck up his chances with any future prospects. 

He _knows_ this, but he stresses over it anyway, to the point where sex just doesn't feel worth it sometimes, and he'll have dry patches that last however long it takes him to realize that while he's been replacing his lube and kleenex supply regularly, he hasn't bought a box of condoms in far too long, all because he doesn't want to risk having a stroke while trying to get his pants off in some stranger's bedroom. 

When he and Paul finally get their shit together, the sex is less stressful in some ways, and more so in others. He doesn't want to let Paul down, and he really doesn't want to talk about his hangups, so he does what he does best; he shows Paul a good time.

They go to Steelers games, Pirate games, Pitt games, anywhere fun where they don't have to think about hockey for a few hours. Paul's always interested in the new restaurants that have popped up, and so James makes sure to throw his name around and get them reservations, even if the place is booked up for months in advance. The most important part of James' idea for a good time, though, is booze, and plenty of it.

He doesn't do it all the time, and it's not like he needs to be drunk in order to have sex with Paul, because James _wants_ Paul all the time, sober or not, but on the nights where he wants something more than their usual, wants to fuck Paul or be fucked by him, the way he's figured out to best get from point A to point C is by knocking back a few glasses of something with a bite to it, emphasis on the _b_.

So they'll toss a couple back and take a cab home, stumble their way into Paul's house and fall over each other as they try to scramble up the stairs, James laughing when Paul knocks into the wall and hisses when his latest bruise gets jostled, Paul returning the favor when James does the same by clipping himself on the bannister. They always get keyed up on the ride back, miles past impatient by the time they've got their clothes off. Once they fall into bed it's easy, James forgetting that he was ever nervous at all. 

They'll skip right to two fingers, the painful edge of _too much_ helping to break through James' clouded mind so that he can register the pleasure that's there too, if he's the one getting fucked. When James is the who's doing the fucking, it's the near-painful clench of Paul's body that grounds him, the friction, something that doesn't go away until Paul's loosened and James' dick has pushed lube far enough inside of him that everything finally feels slick and drag-free, a switch between too much and _just right_ that has James tripping headfirst into coming his goddamn brains out.

Paul loves it, and James doesn't feel like he's going to worry himself into impotence while they're doing it, so he counts it as a win.

↓

James is half expecting the trade, but it still hurts when it happens. He calls Paul up and they talk about it for a while, see what they want to do. They're on the phone for a couple hours and James' phone beeps a few dozen times during the duration of their conversation.

When James hangs up he has to blink away tears so that he can see the screen, but the sadness he feels is something he knows he'll work through quickly enough, because he and Paul are rock-solid and can't go a day without texting, so in the grand scheme of things the two of them not kissing or fucking anymore isn't all that big of a loss, even if it does feel that way to him right now.

He's gotten a lot of consolation texts, but there's one that stands out, has so many exclamation marks that he mistakes it for something Geno sent before he realizes that it's from Dicky, welcoming him to the Preds.

It's a lot — too much. 

He realizes that he has to sell his stupid house that he never really wanted to buy in the first place, pack up the few things he's managed to furnish it with. He plops down on his couch, hard, and tosses his phone onto the cushion next to him, burying his face in his hands while he tries to just fucking breathe for a second.

↓

Dicky's exactly how James remembers him: loud, excitable, smile stretching from ear to ear, happy to be around whoever he's around, happy to be doing whatever it is he's doing. It takes James a minute to remember that its better than when they were kids, because now Dicky's happy 'cause that's how he actually feels, not because he's too fucked up to be anything besides. He volunteered to pick James up from the airport, and he's actually there, waiting at the arrivals gate when James gets off the plane.

James is a little shocked, expected to have to wait around for half an hour because Dicky's never been on time in the entirety that James' known him, let alone early. James' disbelief shows on his face and makes Dicky laugh, deep and drawn out, brings out the lines that've started to settle in the corners of his eyes.

"What's up, you bastard?" Dicky asks as they hug, pulling back once he finishes thumping James on the back half a dozen times. "I was gonna wait in the car but I figured seeing that look on your face was worth getting my ass up. You never do disappoint, do you, Jamie?"

↓

Moving in with Dicky is even easier than moving in with Paul had been. It has James feeling like he's right on the edge of something, but he doesn't want to look down and find out just what that something is.

He talks to Paul about it one night, before either of their camps have started, after both of them have had unofficial skates on opposite sides of the country. 

"At least he's not a defenseman?" Paul offers. James can hear something sizzling in the background, imagines Paul making himself dinner. James' stomach rumbles and he whines into the receiver, which just leads to Paul laughing at him.

Giving up, James says, "Yeah, there is that." He listens to Paul cook whatever it is he's cooking, closes his eyes to pretend that he's sitting against the island in Paul's kitchen, empty plate in front of him so that Paul can give him samples without making it seem like he's enabling James' begging, except that's exactly what it is. 

"Did you guys fool around in Iowa?" Paul asks.

"I dunno, maybe? I don't remember. We drank a lot, back then." James answers honestly. He's thinks he can remember them kissing, but he isn't able to pin down anything specific, doesn't know if it was on dare or just some buddies-type thing, and James isn't going to risk bringing it up until he's sure they kissed because Dicky wanted James that way.

Paul hums in reply, does something that makes a clanking sound, which means he's probably plating. "Hey, Jamie," Paul starts, stops. James waits him out. Paul's smart, has got a vocabulary for days, but he's self-contained in ways James will never understand. He likes to think about what he's going to say long before he's said it, whereas James likes to talk until he figures his thoughts out. It took Paul forever to get comfortable enough to pause while speaking with James, to trust James not to interrupt or talk over his silences, and James hasn't made him regret it once, so he sure as hell won't start now.

"Make sure you don't make things hard for him," Paul settles on saying, a wealth of meaning around each word, on what he doesn't say, how he phrases the things he does. "Hang out in places that'll be fun for both of you. Don't make him feel bad that he's got seltzer while you're still living it up like you did when you two were kids."

↓

James listens to Paul's advice, a choice that has yet to lead him astray. It wasn't that he ever planned to offer Dicky a drink, or even take him out to a bar just for the sake of going out, but it isn't until Paul tells him to be careful that he realizes just how much his idea of a fun revolves around places that advertise a drink selection as their second or third major draw.

It isn't all that hard, because for the most part Dicky picks where they go since James is new to the city, and Dicky already knows all the places that are safe for himself. The one time James manages to plan their night, he takes them to a music lounge and makes sure that they're seated up by the stage instead of in the back by the bar, where James would typically gravitate. 

Since there's no booze at Dicky's house and James feels too guilty to drink when they go out — even to dinner, even though Dicky tells him over and over that it's fine — James has found his overall alcohol consumption has dropped down considerably. At the beginning of the season he'd have a drink or two if he went out with some of the other guys on the team, but it only took a couple of weeks before he was used to not drinking, didn't feel the need to have a beer with dinner or taste the latest mixed drink that has the most interesting name at whatever club they've wondered into after scraping out two points.

"I've been drinking a lot of tea," he half-brags to Paul over the phone. Dicky and he have the day off, but Paul's getting ready for his pre-game nap. 

James has him on speaker, phone sitting on the arm of Dicky's couch. He's got Paul to the right and Dicky on his left; James finds that it's an okay place to be; Paul marking his fist attempt at a grown-up relationship, decidedly and resolutely in the past, with Dicky maybe being the key to his second. James feels that old nervousness of his bubble up into his throat when he thinks about Dicky being his _last_ , so being trapped between Dicky — solid and glaringly, obviously present — and Paul's disembodied voice feels like poetic justice.

"I have noticed that you've been taking a lot less dumb penalties lately," Paul agrees, voice dryer than the fucking desert. Dicky laughs like Paul's a stand up who's killing his set. James is half tempted to boo, but Paul's comebacks are vicious and he doesn't want to have his off-ice chirping game shamed in front of Dicky.

"I'm gonna conk out now, guys. Make sure he eats, Rich," Paul instructs, hanging up after Dicky says his goodbyes but before James can edge his in, proving James' latest theory that Paul has to be rudest Minnesotan in history, polite only when it suits him and not for a moment longer.

"Feed me, Dicky," James says loftily, turning sideways on the couch and pitching his feet into Dicky's lap. 

Dicky laughs and squeezes James' feet a few times, lightly lifts them up again so that he can stand up. "I'm not like your last boyfriend," Dicky shouts behind him as he makes his way into the kitchen. "I can cook, but my personal best tops out at five ingredients per dish."

James doesn't say anything, sits rigid on the couch until Dicky pokes his head back around the divider, and then all James can say is a resounding _um_ that has Dicky's eyebrows shooting up.

"Oh shit, really? I mean I figured, I guess — but still. _Shit_."

↓

Dicky kisses him after their first game back from an extended road trip, when they're both gassed and sacked out on the couch. He leans over and sucks James' bottom lip into his mouth, easy as breathing. James can't remember the last time somebody kissed him without it just being something that _happened_.

James really can't remember the last time his first kiss happened without drinks smoothing the way, either to provide courage or an excuse, so that rejection wouldn't be too awkward. He remembers why it is that he used to drink so much in the first place, especially around people he was interested in and thought he had some small semblance of a chance with. 

It's like Dicky long conned him into abandoning his crutch without James even knowing it, and now James' fucked. 

"Calm the fuck down," Dicky tells him, his voice gentle like he's trying not to spook a dog that's got its hackles up, something that James does not want associated anywhere near him or their first kiss. Dicky moves down so that he's pressing his lips to James' chin, moves up along his cheek and finally stops at the thin skin just underneath James' eye. "This all right?"

"Yes," James says in a rush. He grabs Dicky's shoulder, and James really should've realized Dicky was up to something when he came back from changing out of his game day suit wearing nothing but ratty old sweats, his sleeve on full display. They start kissing again and James lets his hand slip down until he's got his nails digging into Dicky's pec. 

"Ow," Dicky hisses, pulling back. "That fuckin' hurt, Jimmy. You into rough shit?"

James pauses, because he hasn't ever thought of it that way, but now that he thinks about it — "No," James answers, and his voice wavers, even though he's pretty sure that's the right answer. 

"Then calm the fuck down, you freak. It's eleven and I'm tired'er than shit, nothing crazy is happening tonight." 

It makes James' head spin, but he nods, smooths the tips of his fingers over the small indents that his nails left in Dicky's skin, opens his mouth once Dicky leans back in to resume their kiss.

↓

"Paulie," James asks, going for casual nonchalance.

"Oh jeez," Paul sighs. "What is it? Just tell me, don't drag it out. Are you and Clune dating? I'm fine with it. I may have been waiting for you guys to hook up so that I could, uh —"

"Holy shit," James says, gleeful. "Who the hell are you fuckin'? Is it that rookie with the lips?"

" _No_ ," Paul answers in a rush, which means _yes_ , or at the very least it means _close_. James wants to ask if Paul's fucking Olli of all people, but he bites that question back and saves it for later, in case it proves to be a trump card somewhere down the line. 

"Isn't he like, sixteen?" He asks instead, impressed, and slightly jealous, because he would have killed for his very own Paul back when he got his first taste of the show.

"So you and Clune," Paul insists, and James figures that fair's fair, so he tells Paul, making their first time more sound more exciting than it was, because even if Paul is his best friend, he's still his ex, and James has face to save. 

He tells Paul that there were candles involved, Dicky's zen buddhist ones, and that they retired to the bedroom once things got more heated. Take away the romance and the story's still the same: they kissed lazily until their lips went numb and then jacked each other off right there on the couch.

"Something weird happened though," James says, rounding back to the start of his recap. "I grabbed him kinda hard and he asked me if I liked rough sex? And I said I didn't, because I don't think I do."

Paul's silent on the other end of the line, and it feels pretty damning. James should leave well enough alone, but that's something he's always been bad at, so he asks, "Paul, do I like rough sex?"

"Yes," Paul sounds strangled as he says it. "James, most of the sex we had was rough. _I_ like rough sex."

"Oh," James says, because he doesn't know what else to say.

"Are you fucking— _why_ didn't you say anything?" Paul sounds really pissed. James feels like shit because it wasn't like he didn't enjoy the sex they had.

"We were having good sex! Best sex of my life, anyway," James assures him. "Sex is really weird for me, and so drinking helps, and it never felt like it hurt all that bad when I'd had a few, and Paul, I always came, so what does it even matter?"

" _Sex is weird for you_?"

Paul makes him spell out the ways sex makes him anxious, and how he deals with that. Then he apologizes a lot, and yells at James some more.

↓

Paul makes him promise to tell Dicky about his sex weirdness, and James totally will, once it feels like the right time.

They've moved past handjobs and are firmly in head territory, and Dicky is beyond fucking good at giving head. He takes his time, draws James out to the edge, pulling away and giving him a few minutes to cool off before he starts the process all over again. James loves it, but he loves it even more when things start to feel perfect, and James groans out _please_ , because Dicky doesn't play any games, just sucks that much harder and keeps his head where it is so that James can come in his mouth. 

The one thing James enjoys more than getting head is giving it, and Dicky's his new favorite person to blow, even more than Paul, who knew how to pet his hair just right, something Dicky has yet to master, but James figures that he'll learn that stuff soon enough. The best thing about blowing dick is that he keeps still and lets James go at his own pace, doesn't try to get himself deeper into James' throat, and when James' jaw gets tired he's fine with James pulling off for a while and working him with his hand, until he feels ready to take Dicky back into his mouth, something that Paul always urged him to power through. 

It's so good and _easy_ that James never has a reason to bring it up, because he just isn't anxious about it, for once.

↓

Three days off between games are the highest form of blessings, and James plans to capitalize on theirs. He has half-formed plans of naps and reservations at this one healthy place that has a ton of gluten-free and paleo dishes that the team's dietician has been yelling at him to try.

Dicky uses his veto powers to kill James' caveman dreams, insists that they stay in. He makes them this really tasty soup from scratch, and after a bit of prodding from James he finally admits that Paul e-mailed him a bunch of links to all his favorite hipster, foodie blogs.

"I'm not going to lie to you," James tells him as they're doing the dishes, elbows bumping while James washes their bowls and spoons on one side of the sink while Dicky cleans the shit he used to make the soup in the other. "I was kinda jealous thinking about some little Finnish shit eating food that was rightfully mine, but if you keep this up then Paulie will officially be dead to me."

"What if the only reason I talk to you is so that I can second-hand mooch off of Paul's skills?" Dicky asks, humoring him. 

"Then you're stuck with me forever, I guess. Paul and I are a package deal," James answers, maybe only seventy percent serious — eighty-seven percent.

↓

Dicky suggests they head up to bed not long after the clock over the tv says that it's nine. Normally James would call him an old man, even though their birthdays are only a couple months apart, but the way Dicky's mouth curves as he says _bed_ has James keeping his own shut.

They turn off all the downstairs lights, save one, in case one of them wakes up in the middle of the night and needs a snack. James follows Dicky up the stairs and into the bedroom, and they take their time shrugging out of their clothes and slipping them into the hamper beside the closet before they climb into bed.

James loves kissing and Dicky indulges his obsession, kisses James for a good long while, idly rubbing James' belly, warm and sated from their dinner. It's not long before James feels relaxed, body sunk into the mattress, eyes half-lidded, so blissed out that even the half-chub he's sporting doesn't feel all that pressing, something to be left on the back burner that can be taken care of later. 

Dicky shifts so that he's hovering above James, still kissing him, and he blindly reaches for the bedside drawer, pulls it open one handed and pulls out a bottle of lube and a condom. 

James watches it all out of the corner of his eye and his heartbeat kicks into gear the moment he realizes what's going to happen. They haven't gone all the way yet, and if James had known that was on the table tonight the he probably would have followed Paul's advice and told Dicky about his _thing_ , but now it's way too late. 

Dicky sees how he tenses up, rubs his hands up and down James' flank, goes back to kissing him. It helps James to relax his muscles a bit, but his heart is still racing, and the back of his mind is a litany of _what if you're a bad lay_ and _there's nothing to dull the pain_ that he just can't block out. 

He flinches when Dicky uncaps the lube, but Dicky isn't looking at him in that moment so he misses James' involuntary movement. James readies himself as he watches Dicky spread the slick around his fingers. The last person to fuck him was Paul, and that was nearly seven months ago. He knows that it'll get easier once he and Dicky start fucking regularly, that if he can just suck it up this first time they'll be all the better for it. 

Instead of pushing two fingers in like James expects, Dicky kneads the muscle of one of his cheeks and rubs his fingers over James' hole with the other. He doesn't use enough pressure to push in, just enough to let James know he's there. Dicky ducks down and starts licking along the v of James' hip, placing soft, open mouthed kisses to the skin there, not biting or even sucking hard enough to bring the blood to the surface.

James doesn't even notice when Dicky slips one of his fingers in, not until he angles it just right so that his fingertip jostles James' prostate. Dicky keeps that up until one finger becomes two, then three, and finally four, seamless transitions that feel amazing, never get close to being _too much_.

He lets out a dismayed grunt when Dicky pulls his fingers free; Dicky making it up to him by rubbing along James' rim. James loops his arms around Dicky's and pulls him up so that they can kiss again. They keep it up for a while, slow and languid while Dicky dips the tips of his fingers back into James' body, but never any deeper than that.

Dicky slides into him between one breath and the next; all James knows is that one moment he feels like he needs _something_ and suddenly what was missing suddenly isn't anymore. 

It's so perfect that James grabs two handfuls of the sheets beneath him, readying himself, expecting the pain to surge in. What he's waiting for never comes, Dicky's thrusts smooth and with just the right amount of force that has him nailing against James' prostate when he angles his hips just right, and causing perfect near-misses that still feel amazing when he doesn't. His mind's spinning, torn between focusing on how good it feels and how he has no idea what the fuck is even going on, and it prevents him from sinking into the rhythm like he usually does, even when it hurts. 

He's jolted out of the weird, pleasure-haze of confusion his mind wandered itself into when Dicky comes, the pace of his thrusts quickening for a few beats before stilling completely. James grabs his face and kisses him, puts all of himself into it because the face Dicky makes whenever he comes always gets James hornier than all get out. 

Dicky stays inside him while he comes down, but he pulls out after a minute or so, keeps kissing him as he slips three fingers back inside James, his hand miming the rhythm his hips had been keeping. It feels too good, has James moaning into his mouth, too caught up to kiss properly. James finally comes when Dicky slips his pinky in to join the other three fingers, stretches James just _that_ much farther than the width of his dick had been. Dicky leaves his fingers inside of James while he rides out his orgasm, doesn't pull them out until he's finally stopped clamping down around them, a feeling James could quickly see himself becoming addicted to. 

Between the two of them they kill one of the bottles of water they always keep on their side tables. James feels light headed and like he maybe lost a couple pounds from sweating alone. "Jesus christ," James' throat sounds like somebody took sandpaper to it, raw and aching. His voice comes out in a rasp. He hadn't even noticed being all that loud.

"Yeah." Normally James would say that Dicky was being smugger than he had any right to be, but that had been amazing, and it sure as shit wasn't because of anything James had done, so Dicky deserves to brag a little.

"Is it always like that? _Fuck_ , Dicky," James praises, flopping his hand onto Dicky's belly and giving it a few rubs. 

"I don't want to take away from it or anything," Dicky laughs, dropping his hand over James' and looping their fingers together, "because it was real good, but that was like, basic sex, Jamie."

"That was hands down the best sex of my life," James is come drunk, that's the only explanation, because otherwise he never would have let himself say, "I don't think I've ever done it and not have it hurt."

"What?" Dicky asks, with an edge to his voice. James replays what he said back to himself and thinks, _shit_.

So James tells him, and by the time James has wrapped up his sexual history, all Dicky has to say is, "Jesus."

"It's not all that bad?" James says, because he really doesn't feel all that fucked up over it. "It was mostly my own hangups, and I mean, I think maybe you weren't the only one with a drinking problem, back then." Dicky lets out a hurt noise, and James worries for a second that he fucked up, comparing his _maybe_ -problem with Dicky's serious one, but all Dicky does is pull James closer into his chest and pet at his hair.

"Also, like, in the interest of full-disclosure," James starts, and he flinches when Dicky's hand stills in his hair, but he powers on. "Paulie and I sorta figured out that maybe I need to talk about it more, and he told me to tell you like a month ago? But the time never felt right."

"How are you even fucking _alive_ ," Dicky groans. He rolls them until he's got James in a camel clutch, pretending to choke him out. Dicky cusses him out, complains that James would die without Paul outlining his every move, except for how James apparently doesn't even listen to Paul. 

"I'm sorry," James laughs out, tears slipping from the corners of his eyes while he tries to wiggle out of Dicky's grip, finally caving and agreeing to Dicky's demands. "I promise to tell you shit before it's too late, and I promise listen to Paul, since he's always right, but I'll do my best to come to you first; I _promise_." 

Dicky relents and lets go of James' chin, rolling off to the side, though he doesn't seem all that convinced that James'll keep his word, so James makes a deal with him: he asks Dicky to show him how to do what he did, so that when he fucks Dicky, it won't hurt, and Dicky looks at him like he's stupid — which is fair — and promises to do just that, so James figures that they're even.

**Author's Note:**

> wrote this for a friend who asked for help emotionally pivoting away from paulie/nealer and into nealer/somebody-on-the-preds.
> 
> i have no idea if james is living with rich. for years i have been lamenting the lack of info and general pimping the preds do for their players. i'm springboarding off [james maybe giving an interview from rich's house](http://instagram.com/p/tTO4X9x2qH/) via rich's instagram. (update: yes he is now confrimed to live at rich's house. #bless)
> 
> also, today i had it pointed out to me that i apparently posted the first paul/james fic on ao3 and now i'm posting the first rich/james fic. full circle? ahead of the curve again? too many friends that bully me into writing rarepairs on kink memes? yes, the last one seems the most legit.


End file.
